


Fall apart to fly

by Derryred



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 22:24:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11000253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Derryred/pseuds/Derryred
Summary: Just a short drabble of John's thoughts, following Sherlock's faked death.





	Fall apart to fly

Nothing ever happens to me. I find myself wishing for tragedy, for crisis, just to bring a short relief of all the inconsequential moments. Something to break my comfortable, quiet existence that the wind could fade like the grey mist of dawn before daybreak. I hope for heartbreak, for the loss of me, to be torn away, apart and asunder. If joy is beyond me, I'd rather pain than contentment. I'd rather burn than wither away in twilight made of tears.

I want to fall apart to fly, I want to hate and burn and love and yearn and lose it all, to chase after dreams born of midnight fancies and folly. To wind a river of fear and fight not to drown, to leave behind the citylights and run to the end of the world and the stars. Perhaps then I'd forget all the steps I take feel like a long downhill, inevitable and unchanging, towards a known end.

I live, I love. I smile and dream of tears. Not sure I'd find the real me among reflections in a mirror world. Just skin deep, refracted light, shut behind a faded glass, a trick of eyes and mind, insubstantial. So thin the face of reality, yet never torn. Is it? I am. Skin resting over bones, hiding a heart but not a human. Built on a double helix though standing alone, apart, now, in a crowd. The outer curve is longer. I was on the inside. A symphony never played written in fibrous tissue and a web of collagen, just like lies. A microscope might show what moves it, actin grasping at straws, though the fingers have long given up finding a hold.

**Author's Note:**

> A bit poetic for John, perhaps, but well. Somehow angst wants to be a poem, and won't take no for an answer. I think I remember seeing that phrase, written in fibrous tissue, before, but have no idea where. I'm sorry if I stole it. As well as for any especially weird sentences, English isn't my language.


End file.
